In a few minutes a large group got together to start back to the Identification and Expulsion Centre. The immigrants crossed back through the town, in the other direction, shouting out again “Freedom, Freedom!” Cappello, Ciro, Rosanna and other inhabitants of Lampedusa accompanied them. The Carabinieri let them through while the riot police broke up.

The parade made its way to the Imbriacole district, where the CPA is, a kilometre away. It was impressive to see the narrow road full of people, filling it from side to side. Some 20 minutes later, the group arrived at the door of the Centre. Some of them went in, others doubted. They did not have much faith: they did not want to go any further in if the Carabinieri did not let Cappello, Ciro and some more of them in. They tried to get through the door, but the civil servants at the Ministry of Home Affairs prevented them from doing so. The tension grew between the police and the demonstrators.

“You’re worse than Gaddafi’s people!” Rosanna said, who knows what the police are like. “With the kicks you give them in their shins, it’s not surprising that they don’t trust you!”

“The next time, you can go and get them!” Cappello shouted at them.

The “illegal immigrants” insulted the police: “bastards, wankers, freedom!” They attacked and struck an ambulance that was trying to make its way quickly through the throng. People started beating each other and insults could be heard being exchanged between the Carabinieri and the demonstrators. Later, little by little, the row abated and calm was restored; an apparent calm: both the people of Lampedusa as well as the immigrants had decreed a truce, waiting to see whether the Minister of Home Affairs would get the shuttle service ready or if they would need to get back into action.

Meanwhile, the town was lifeless. The shops remained closed, partly because of the general indefinite strike against Maroni and partly because “with all these clandestine people wandering around, you never know”. Situations of chaos such as this are rife with rumours of drunken immigrants, suicide attempts and thefts.

A kind of psychosis started to spread which did not however, affect the solidarity of the locals towards the clandestine people. The immigrants returned to the CPA. By night time, nearly all of them were back. But it was a temporary return. Tomorrow will be another day and if the government does not give in, if it does not decide to transfer the immigrants to other centres on the continent, if it does not go back on its word about the new CPA, the wick will be irremediably lit again.

Ciro and Rosanna were sweaty and exhausted. They hadn’t eaten anything all day and it was almost 3 o’clock. In the streets, groups of Mahgribis could still be found. They walked to the house of a companion of his, who was on duty. They came across a Guardia de Finanza bus which was patrolling, looking for fugitives. Every time they found one, the driver whistled and invited him to get on board.

When they got home, Ciro took two tonic waters out of the fridge, opened a cupboard and after a while found a bottle of gin. He mixed a couple of gin and tonics which they downed in one. “Shall we have another one?” “Yes, let’s!”